


if i could fly, then i would know

by RainyForecast



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Artist Steve Rogers, Depression, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovering Veteran Bucky Barnes, i guess?, is what this particular pairing is called?, no superpowers, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:54:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/RainyForecast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is a night owl, and grocery stores are quieter at night anyway. You meet a lot of fellow lost souls though. Like scrappy artists with more righteous fury than self preservation instincts. </p><p>Title is from Cecilia And The Satellite by Andrew McMahon In The Wilderness. I may change it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i could fly, then i would know

**Author's Note:**

> I will do my best to portray PTSD accurately and respectfully, but I may mess up. My sincerest apologies. 
> 
> Also I know pre-serum Steve and post-WS Bucky might be an odd combo, but eh, what else is fanfic for if not to play with (add to, improve, obliterate) canon?
> 
> Un-beta'd, but edited. Some mistakes may have gotten past me!

Bucky prefers to shop at night. The 24 hour grocery is quietest then, save for the obnoxious Muzak and occasional pothead cheerfully knocking about on a snack quest. He can just pull the hood of his ratty sweatshirt low over his eyes and block everything out. He realizes that he looks suspicious as hell, but there are many contenders for “Weirdest 1 AM Shopper” and he figures he isn’t even in the top five. There is an old lady who wears pastel sweatshirts with kittens on them and talks to herself. There are your standard druggies. Occasionally someone with dark eye circles purchasing diapers or formula. Flushed people jogging to the aisle where the condoms are. The entire ecosystem of the store is different at night. Lost souls. Misfits. Weirdos. Insomniacs. Bucky supposes he ticks all of those boxes and more. 

He hasn’t shaved in a couple days; probably wouldn’t have gone out at all if he hadn’t run out of coffee. He’ll forgo a lot of other staples, but not that. So he goes late at night, when the surly demeanor, prosthetic arm, and tendency to startle violently at loud noises don’t draw so much attention. 

After dithering in front of the coffee for longer than necessary (his therapist wants him to change his routine; he figures dark roast instead of light is about as radical as he wants to get) he admits to himself that he needs a few other things. Fruit, or some shit. He’s started getting sick of the taste of canned food. 

He’s putting a few oranges into a paper bag when he hears sudden, raised voices from behind the next aisle. His heart starts racing, but he grips the paper bag tighter in his good hand and breathes in slowly through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Two men, deep-voiced, angry. One of them is slurring his words drunkenly. The sober-sounding one’s voice becomes even louder and he can make out words. 

“-lowlife piece of shit, she said SHE WANTS TO BE LEFT ALONE, FUCKER-“

Bucky is moving before he even knows what he’s doing. It’s instinctive. All he can think of is Becca, coming home in tears because of some creep or other. He rounds the corner of the aisle, and skids to a surprised stop at the scene in front of him. From the voices, he’d assumed that both men were fairly large. He was wrong. There’s a woman, standing with her back against the cereal, looking terrified. Drunk Piece of Shit is weaving menacingly across from her, and in between them is quite possibly the angriest man Bucky has ever seen in his life. And he's known a few drill sergeants back in the Army.  
Firecracker, as Bucky mentally names the man, is about 5 foot 2 at best, and Drunk Piece of Shit dwarfs him. His fists are balled, and his face is fiery red as he angles himself between the woman and DPOS. He’s practically snarling. But when DPOS takes a lumbering swing at him, Bucky decides it’s time to do something. Heroics aside, DPOS is going to flatten Firecracker if any punches connect. Dude looks like a stiff breeze could bowl him over. 

Bucky lets the basket in his hand fall to the floor with a loud clatter, and all parties turn his way. He stares out from under his hood at DPOS, and with as much menace as he can manage, intones: “Hey, dickhead. You’re done here.” DPOS lurches towards him and swings. Bucky ducks the punch, steps forward, then fells him with a brutally efficient leg sweep. DPOS’s body hits the floor with a thud. He groans and doesn’t get up. Bucky straightens and looks up at Firecracker and the woman. The woman’s mouth is open in an “o” of amazement, but Firecracker still looks pissed.  
As Bucky steps back to pick up his basket, he distinctly hears Firecracker mutter “I had him on the ropes” under his breath. Bucky snorts, and turns back to look at him, but he’s turned to the woman again. “Do you want me to walk with you to your car?”  
“Yeah,” the woman sniffles, he voice shaking. “And thanks, to both of you.” Bucky starts at that, then smiles stiffly at her.  
“No problem,” he manages to mutter, and leaves them to their business.

***

Later that night (or morning, he supposes) Bucky can’t help but turn the events of the night over in his mind. The image of that angry little guy getting up in that lunkhead’s face both amuses him and fills him with a bit of admiring warmth. The guy either has no fear or no sense of self preservation. A blonde, 5 foot 2 ball of vibrating righteous fury. Bucky smiles to himself at the memory. 

It’s been a while since anything has made him smile.

***

A couple days later, Bucky has a good day. Shower, laundry, the works. Still, his fridge and cupboards are empty again. And he used up most of his limited energy cleaning. So he ventures out at night again to avoid human interaction, mentally thanking whichever geniuses invented the self-checkout.   
He may have paused for a second to glance down the cereal aisle and thought about balled fists and a voice too deep for the skinny chest it’s coming from. He may have.


End file.
